


The battle of evermore

by wildmachinery



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-29
Updated: 2006-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildmachinery/pseuds/wildmachinery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week and a half after Sam's graduation from high school, he's in Washington state, just south of Aberdeen on Route 101.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The battle of evermore

**Author's Note:**

> the places on the road signs are real, i shit you not. look 'em up.

A week and a half after Sam's graduation from high school, he's in Washington state, just south of Aberdeen on Route 101. His father's hunting something in the deep woods that's been eating the occasional hiker, leaving their fly-blown bones in messy piles on the main trails. Sam thinks, mostly out of a perverse desire to argue, that it's just a really big bear with territorial issues and a taste for human flesh. Dean thinks it's some kind of possessed Sasquatch with a sick fucking sense of humor, and also that Sam is an idiot. Dad doesn't share what he thinks.

Sam knows it's wronger than wrong, and always feels guilty about it, but he can't help resenting these abstract strangers sometimes, these victims, always taking from Sam's life, from Sam's family, and never giving back. Sam thinks sometimes that one day, there won't be anything more to give, with the Winchester men stripped down like those bones but still hunting because it's all they know how to do, as insubstantial and hungry as ghosts.

The orientation packet from Stanford is a weight in his pack, a tangible presence in the room as Sam cleans guns, sharpens knives, tries to talk with Dean or Dad without mentioning it, feeling stupid and guilty. It's been months since Sam came home - another temporary home in another temporary town, so that he could finish up his last year of high school without too much fuss - to find the envelope in their mailbox, to hold it in shaking hands. He knew, common knowledge, that the thickness of college letters directly corresponded to the quality of the news they contained, but he still almost wanted to ask Dean to open it for him. He had imagined the look on Dean's face instead, and opened it himself.

When Sam finally works up the courage to tell Dean about Stanford, Dean just barks out a laugh and says, You're kidding, right? It goes downhill from there. Sam yells, Full ride, and, You should be proud of me! Dean informs Sam that he's a selfish fuck, and how can he even think of leaving Dad like this? Sam tells Dean that he's either brainwashed or an idiot, or maybe both, and it hardly matters who throws the first punch. It's dirty and close and unscientific, and they fight until they're bruised and aching and too tired to dance around each other anymore, and Dean shoves Sam up against the wall of their motel room, raining kisses on him like blows. There's blood in Sam's mouth, copper and salt, and Dean's shoulders are shaking as he touches Sam roughly, runs one hand down Sam's side, squeezing his hip, as the other stays firmly planted in the middle of Sam's chest, holding him down. Sam is breathless with anger and fear, misery and love, and he rocks against Dean, blindly raising his hands to Dean's face, fingers tangling in his hair.

They end up curled away from each other on the bed in the darkness. The heat of Dean's body feels angry, like a brand, and burns even from a distance. Sam doesn't have to wonder if this is the last time.

Dean beside him, breathes, You have to, Sam, you have to tell him, and Sam whispers back, I know, I know I do. When Sam wakes up, Dean is gone, and they don't talk again for three days.

* * *

Dad comes back when the hunt is finished, in the pale grey light before dawn, covered in dark blood. Sam watches his face as he sleeps, the lines on his forehead and around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes. Sam can't remember a time when his father didn't look tired and worn, even when he was smiling, and Sam can't help but wonder sometimes at what force it is that drives him with such purpose, if Sam will ever understand that part of him.

Sam tells him after breakfast. It doesn't go any better than he expected, maybe even a little worse. When he finally bangs out the door of his father's motel room, Dean is leaning on the Impala with Sam's big duffel lying packed at his feet. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and when he looks up from his feet at Sam, it's almost too much. Sam's chest is tight with grief and fury and something like relief, and he feels terribly, terribly compressed, as though he might burst right out of his skin without warning, like a too-full water balloon, and soak into the wet earth.

But Dean doesn't say anything, just looks at Sam a beat longer and then turns, hefting up his bag and slinging it in the back seat, and jerks his head at Sam to get in the car.

They drive in silence, Sam staring out at the signs passing by on the side of the road. Cape Disappointment. Clark's Dismal Nitch. The pressure in Sam's chest has eased into a kind of dumb misery, and Sam can't think of a time when he's felt more lonely, more sure that he was doing the right thing.

When they get into town, Dean buys Sam a coffee and drives him to the bus station, waiting as Sam buys his ticket. Sam has a black eye to match Dean's split lip, and people stare as they walk back to the car together, as Dean hands him his bag and squeezes his shoulder. You take care of yourself, little brother, Dean says, you stay safe, and he's turned and gone before Sam can say a word to him.

Later, on the bus, as he's digging through his bag looking for a book, Sam finds his knives that Dean has packed for him, a bundle of aloe and feverfew, for protection, and Dean's favorite lighter, and Sam has to shove his own fist into his mouth to keep from crying.

* * *

 **epilogue**

Her name is Jessica. She's majoring in architecture and likes to paint, and her voice carries a hint of laughter that Sam could wrap himself up in like a blanket, fall asleep to the sound of it. When they walk together in the placid California sunshine, side by side, she's just the right height for him to drape an arm around her shoulders, for her to hug his waist and hook her thumb in his belt loop. He keeps his hands in his pockets.

Sam doesn't think of Dean, of cool Aberdeen fog beading in his hair, the shadows in his eyes as he said goodbye.

Damn, Sam, she says, peeking up at him from under her lashes, that's a hell of a shiner you've got there. There's a little smile on her face that makes Sam want to kiss the corner of her mouth.

Yeah, well, Sam says. You should see the other guy.  



End file.
